Single White Female

Sadly, the time has come again for me to look for a new housemate. After exhausting several leads from personal contacts, I must now resort to finding some potential psycho off of Craigslist. I don't know why I am actively avoiding this inevitability so much. To date, I have lived with several people I've met through Craigslist, and it has always worked out just fine...except for the roommate who bought a tiny dog that wanted absolutely nothing to do with me but considered the floor of my bedroom to be prime real estate for its peepee. I am not afraid to publicly state this because, much like the dog's apathy toward me, I am fairly confident my former roommate's interest in my life does not extend to following this blog.

I'm certain my failure to search for a roommate is a mixture of one part dread, three parts laziness, and one part held-out hope that my quarter will finally unearth a $10,000 prize on one of those dollar scratch-off lotto tickets, in which case I would be able to afford to live alone. (Yes, I am indeed living proof that it's not just retirees whose McDonald's menu item-of-choice is the filet of fish sandwich who "invest" in those lotto tickets.) "You look like a deadbeat mother," a dear friend once commented as I walked out of a 7-Eleven carrying a gallon of milk, a fistful of lotto tickets, a pint of ice cream, and the latest TV Guide. (I didn't actually have a TV Guide in hand, but I feel that this is the only way it could have been a fair judgment.)

When considering my Craigslist ad, I am uncertain of the approach I should use. Part of me wants to start the screening process early, do a little weeding out before the face-to-face meetings. I could ask some simple multiple choice questions like this:

1) Clorox, Windex, aluminum foil, Drain-O, ammonia. Combined, what do these things make?
          A) a clean apartment!
          B) crystal meth
          C) Yo no hablo ingles.

(He/she would still be awarded partial credit for answering "C"--in my pursuit of becoming bilingual--but would still need to check out on the meth-cooking part.)

I could begin by providing a few fun factoids about myself in the hope of generating some compatibility, but then I run the risk of a situation like, "Ohmigod! I also wear a size 7 in shoes, am a left-handed recovering hypochondriac, find fart jokes funny, and don't like preparing meat or touching newspapers! It's like we're the same person or something!" And, in fact, we are at this point because she's been actively stealing my identity for months, controlling my paltry bank accounts and managing my Mint.com budget unbeknownst to me, as I wrote off Mint.com as the devil incarnate months ago and haven't touched it since. It's now just a stagnant webpage containing all of my most sensitive financial information, neatly compartmentalized and waiting [/asking] to be stolen, which I believe was the whole purpose of the website in the first place.

"Quit flattering yourself with these delusions, Kristin,*" is what you're saying to me right now.

*You are now one step closer to successfully hacking into my Mint.com account.

And I say to you, "Oh, I am flattering myself with exactly these delusions." Look, I paid money to sit in the theater and watched "The Roommate," so I know how quickly these things can escalate. It's all fun and games until you stumble upon a sketchpad filled with 73 charcoal renditions of your face from different angles--"Are these of me sleeping???" (...met with silence because, at that very moment, he/she is behind you wielding a knife aimed directly at your jugular. "Not my new Wüsthof! I just got that on sale at Crate & Barrel.")

In the end, I trust it will all work out, and I always welcome the opportunity to meet new people....or to be sketched. ("How about now? Does it look like I'm really sleeping???") If nothing else, it will give me more to blog about passive aggressively. "Ummm, whoever keeps dipping their knife into my peanut butter jar after they've already dipped it in the Nutella jar had just better stop!"

NOTE: You will NEVER see me write this, as peanut butter and Nutella are a delicious union of spreads.

P.S. NOTE: Kudos to you if you got this post's title reference. For your impressive knowledge of terrible '90s movies, I reward you with this:

J.C. Penney, the Friend I Never Had

I received a Wall Street Journal news alert today that announced, "J.C. Penney Nabs a Top Apple Executive." Relax, I have absolutely nothing to say with regards to that article.

It did, however, conjure up memories of the imaginary best friend I had as a small child. Well, let's take it down a notch and leave it at imaginary friend because 'best' would imply that I had many, which may cause you to infer unproven things about me and my upbringing. And let's leave it at 'child' because I never really was small, instead resembling a young John Goodman in my early baby pictures.

I fear that you don't believe me and  therefore wish I could post a photo of my baby self next to an image of John Goodman's self, but that would involve me teaching my mom how to use the printer's scanner over the phone. And seeing as how it is 2:15 in the morning (with the time being the irrelevant factor in this equation), you'll just have to trust me on this one.

As a promising and budding young mind, I proudly introduced my friend to my parents, "Mom, Dad, this is J.C.; J.C. Penney." (This is arguably the clearest illustration of why I have had this blog since 2009 and still fail to have more than 10 entries. 'Creative' never appears as a descriptor on my resume.)

In retrospect, I probably would have gone with a more nuanced J.C. Penny, but seeing as I had neither developed the faculties for spelling nor the knowledge of intellectual property rights laws, I was clearly liable for trademark infringement. (Dad, navigating me through the process of setting up a Roth IRA at the age of 7 was indeed an astute parenting move, but let me ask where you were on this one!)  

Luckily, the retail giant never pursued legal action because they really could've taken everything from me--my Fisher Price® (not making that mistake again!) kitchen, my cardboard general store of plastic foodstuffs, one recalcitrant beta fish, and a rough-and-tumble team of troll dolls.

In hindsight, I don't really know what purpose J.C. served. Our friendship was tepid at best. There was no use in bossing her around to do my bidding, as it simply would not have gotten done. That only happens when your imaginary friend is Bruce Willis. And I don't believe I was a child who ever really talked to myself. (So God, perhaps we can just pay that one forward when my turn comes around to parent...)

I think it was fueled by my desire to keep up with the Joneses. The Joneses, in this case, were not a nuclear family living in the suburbs with a cocker spaniel, but were in fact my brother and his imaginary wingman, Cheppy. I have to commend my brother for an early embrace of multiculturalism because, with a name like Cheppy, I had to assume he was foreign-born. (Maybe he was a Cheppi.) The compliments stop there, however, because in my view, Cheppy/i was a grade-A creep-o.

When asked to describe Cheppy/i, my brother informed us that he was an old man with white hair. Had I been born in 1999 and allowed to watch R-rated movies at the tender and impressionable age of 4, I would have pictured him as the character Blue from "Old School":

 

Instead, I grew up during a time when I could swoon over a young Macaulay Culkin, and hence I pictured him as that terrifying octogenarian who saves the day in "Home Alone":

Perhaps I was too harsh on Cheppy/i, though, because he seemed to get on with my brother just fine. I have no recollection of any escalating quarrels or threats of vehicular homicide using my brother's red Big Wheels® Jeep®. Through thick and thin, his friendship to my brother stood the testament of time. Unlike that good-for-nothing lout, J.C.

In the end, J.C. Penney and I parted ways. We still manage a Christmas card every now and again, and the last I heard was that she was pursuing her doctorate in linguistic anthropology at UC Santa Barbara. She always was a go-getter, despite me calling her a "lout" above. I was projecting, people. 

As for Cheppy/i, he has since moved on from this world due to congestive heart failure. We all have skeletons in our closets, but it turns out that old Chep-Chep was a 2-pack-a-day smoker for 45 years. I always got the impression that he was a bit of a morning drinker, too, but my brother warns that this is purely speculative. (He was also a libertarian.) My brother doesn't hold these secrets against him, though, as good ol' Chep bequeathed that shovel pictured above to him.

Spanish News is for Lovers

Last weekend I traveled up to New York for a friend's birthday and to visit the BF and was greeted with some exciting news. Saul, or "mi amor"--because it's OK to use sappy pet names if they're not in English--was interviewed for an article in El Diario, New York City's largest Spanish-language newspaper. What Saul did not know at the time of the interview was that he would be featured as the cover story, and his face would plaster the front page of Saturday's edition!

(He was a bit disappointed to see that his neck seemingly did not arrive on time for the cover shoot, but being the support system that I am, I reassured him that, hey, no one can ever really trust a skinny chef. And in my opinion, if your photo is quintuple the pixels of Ricky Martin's, you've clearly made it, no neck and all.)

Online, you can find the article here.* Offline, you can find the article in any one of the 137 purchased copies Saul is currently hiding in his apartment.

Needless to say, (Note: this idiom is not true. I'm getting there...) I truly could not have been more proud of him. In my opinion, this recognition is not only well-deserved but is long overdue. Saul has worked so hard and has achieved so much all before the age of 30....and that's a good thing because we all know what happens at 30: your life is pretty much over, and in my case, I'll be entrusting one lucky loved one with the task of taking me out back and Old Yellering me. (To everyone over the age of 30 who is reading this, I admire and respect your choice. Keep reaching for those stars. It's not so bad, right???)

Apparently for poor Saul, however, I did not effuse enough praise, which is probably a fair judgment. I'm not overly excitable in situations like this. "Wow, Powerball winner, huh? Good stuff. Glad that statistically worked in our favor this time."

I became painfully aware of this when throughout the day, Saul kept casually bringing up the article. I should note here that Saul is an incredibly humble and selfless human being...traits which he has obviously learned and cultivated from my example.

The first comment was dropped while we were sitting down having lunch together...at a restaurant that was/is getting away with selling $8 tacos. No, no, not a platter of tacos. Like, PER TACO. I understand this is New York City, where you can get away with selling someone a used piece of floss for $2, but for $8 a taco, I expect that pollo to have been serenaded to slaughter by a 7-piece mariachi band with maracas made from hollowed-out unicorn eggs.

As he's looking at his phone, presumably Googling himself, and I'm nervously rambling about the restaurant's solid choice in stemware in an effort to keep the conversation going--because there is a damn lot of pressure on a 48-hr weekend when you're in a long-distance relationship, and everything had better be spectacular and perfect AND fun-filled AND argument-free, ok?!--he, in an attempt at utter nonchalance, slips in, "So I guess this is kind of like a big deal or something, no? I mean, I didn't think it was that big of a deal, but I'm surprised that a lot of people have left me so many comments on Facebook already, which means they've seen the article...which I thought wasn't that big of a deal...I mean, I guess..." Again, I try reinforcing that he is absolutely correct. This is a big deal, and I am so very proud of him. THESETACOSARE8DOLLARS?!?

Later in the day, as we are walking around the city in an effort to stave off impending food comas, Saul opines that he should sign up for a membership with the New York City Sports Club and really get his act together. "I mean, mi amor, now that people are going to start recognizing my face and knowing who I am, I'm going to have to get more serious about things and start looking like a real businessman. I just can't mess around anymore." Me: "You are absolutely right! Can we go get some gelato?"

As evening sets in and we continue to stroll around, Saul casually asks, "Do you think we can pop into a corner store to get something?"
   "Sure. What do you need to get?"
   "Well, I just want to see if I can pick up a copy of the article, you know, for myself, before it's gone tomorrow."
I turn my head, trying my best to stifle my chuckles, because we all know that there are currently 137 copies occupying his one-bedroom apartment uptown. But let mi amor have his day in the sun; he's earned it.

We venture into no less than five convenience stores before we finally find one that has a copy. My failed attempt to appear more supportive: "Wow! This must mean that all these places have sold out of copies. That's fantastic!" Saul points out that we are in SoHo and that no one sells Spanish-language anything in SoHo. Well way to rain on my parade.

When we finally arrive at a corner store that carries El Diario, we discover there is only one copy left. It is destined to be! Saul just stands there. "Here it is!" I say, "Let's get it." Saul makes no move to pick up the paper from the rack.
   "Yeah, I mean, it'd be a good idea to get a copy for ourselves to have, no?"
He takes a definitive step back from the newspaper rack and tries to suddenly look interested in Slim Jims.
   "Ohhhh I see what you're doing!" I say. "Nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-no. You are NOT going to get all shy and embarrassed now! We've trekked all the way across town for this article. You wanted the paper, so come on. You're going to have to slap that bad boy on the counter and do your best to restrain yourself from striking that same pose and flashing that trademark grin! Now let's go."

The thing about New York is that 99% of its inhabitants don't give a shit who you are. You could be Madonna herself and New Yorkers would only become concerned with your existence if: a) you were trying to take their cab; or b) you were taking way too long in the Starbucks/Barnes & Noble/Whole Foods restroom. In many ways, this is for the best, and it reinforces the point that the cashier behind the counter certainly didn't give a shit as to why we were squabbling over who would pay for a newspaper that was going to be replaced with tomorrow's edition in just a few hours. ...which also makes it even funnier that Saul made this grand gesture of folding the newspaper in half and tucking it under his arm as he quickly left some change on the counter and hurried out of the store.

I, of course, wasn't going to leave it at that. I grabbed the newspaper from underneath his arm, opened it up flashing the cover to everyone we passed on the sidewalk, while emphatically moving my gaze back and forth between pretending to read all these Spanish words and staring up at Saul. Please note that if karma really did exist, I would've bitten it hard on a raised piece of cracked sidewalk while doing this, but thankfully that didn't happen. Yet.

In the end, I asked Saul to take a picture of me to upload to Facebook, which I think made up for all of my absent commendations early in the day:

  Caption: She loves to read!

Isn't that the truth, especially when it's about the incredible perseverance and accomplishments of the Saulito I love!

*Por favor, if someone could please read this and send me a translation, um, that would be great. Look, don't judge me. I know the important stuff: "Necessito usar el baño." "Tengo hambre." "No pienso que tu necesites una cerveza otra." See?